


(these hands of mine)

by drcloyd



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, hand-holding, slight hurt comfort, walker guts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 04:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13674282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drcloyd/pseuds/drcloyd
Summary: a series of hand-holds.





	(these hands of mine)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oleanderedits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderedits/gifts).



The afternoon heat was stifling, the air still and heavy, visible on the shimmering horizon. 

"We've still got half left to do," Jesus said, propped up on his elbows on the grass beneath a sprawling oak, hair in a bun, taking shelter beneath the shade it provided. 

Daryl grunted in response, back against the wide old trunk, looking like his hair had melted to his head. The heat made everything feel lazy, and they'd spent the last two hours pounding fence posts into the ground to enclose a garden. Neither felt overly inclined to move, aside from occasionally swatting at the flies that buzzed past. 

The past few weeks they'd been spending more and more time together, courtesy of Maggie who seemed to come up with an endless list of tasks for the two of them, that for some reason they just _had_ to do together. Honestly, it was easier to just go along with it - lil Hershel had been teething and everyone in Barrington House was suffering for it, kept awake by a fussy toddler. Maggie Rhee on no sleep was not someone to argue with. 

"You know what would be nice right now?" Jesus asked, eyes closed, head tilted upward toward the sky, snatches of sun peeking through the oak leaves. It left dappled patches of light on Jesus' face, patches Daryl eyed lazily. He wondered if Jesus ever got hot, with that beard on his face. 

"A cigarette?" Daryl asked. He'd lost his last pack to a goat, of all things, which apparently had a knack for pick pocketing. Everyone found it far more amusing than he had, especially Jesus, who Daryl suspected of _teaching_ the goat. Sounded impossible, but he honestly wouldn't put it past him. 

"A lemonade," Jesus said, like Daryl hadn't said anything. 

Daryl snorted and grabbed for the canteen he'd brought with them, leaning forward to offer it to Jesus. 

"All we got," he said, watching as Jesus reached out without opening his eyes, groping in his general direction. Daryl rolled his eyes, pressing the canteen toward him at the same time as Jesus reached out for it, causing their hands to collide. Jesus' hand was soft - softer than Daryl would have expected. 

Daryl felt something shiver in the pit of his stomach - figured it was heat stroke - and quickly let go as soon as the canteen was safely in the other man's grip. 

Jesus finally cracked an eye open at that, looking annoyingly amused and Daryl suddenly found the pile of fence posts waiting to be put up mighty interesting, far more interesting than the bob of Jesus' Adam's apple as he swallowed down some cool water. 

Suddenly, the air seemed so much hotter. 

 ----------------

"You're sure that's going to work?" Jesus said, stomach churning in a way that was downright unfair given all that he'd seen up until this point. 

"I mean, I ain't ever tried it, but Rick did, couple times." 

A furrow appeared between Jesus' brows, mouth pinched thin beneath his beard. "I guess it is our only option," he said, although he did wonder if he might have better luck kicking his way out. 

He hesitated some more, long enough that Daryl reached down, scooped up a glob of entrails and slapped it to Jesus' shoulder, ignoring his indignant squawk. "Don't be a baby, longer we wait the more there'll be," he said, smearing some down his arms and across his shirt, even as Jesus tried to squirm away. He wasn't trying very hard, because Daryl knew Jesus could knock him on his ass with a well-placed elbow, if he really wanted to. 

"If I'm going to die I'd prefer it wasn't covered in walker guts." 

Jesus twitched as Daryl smeared some guts over his shirt - and he thought about telling him that he could do that just fine on his own but couldn't really find it in himself to say the words. 

"Y'ain't gonna die," Daryl said, and in the next moment Jesus kind of wished he had because Daryl took a glob and smeared it all over his face, even getting it into his beard - which didn't seem completely necessary. Jesus fought the urge to gag, which warred with the realization that _Daryl_ was touching his face, which was something he may or may not have had a few idle daydreams about. 

"Okay I think that's enough," Jesus said, nudging Daryl's hand away, trying very, very hard not to breathe through his nose. Or at all. It didn't help the smell, very much. "Looks like you need some," he said, bending down to scoop some up - it was too late to be squeamish about it - and slapped it on Daryl, the sound of blood and viscera squelching turning his stomach a little more. 

Daryl made a disgruntled noise that Jesus ignored, enjoying the excuse to get Daryl's biceps all nice and slathered (it was fall - why the hell wasn't the man wearing sleeves? A leather vest didn't do much to battle the cold when put atop a flannel that'd had the sleeves ripped off) - if he was going to die today, he might as well enjoy this. 

Once they were all good and covered, Daryl nudged one of the drapes aside with the butt of his knife, the horde around the cabin they were holed up in snarling at the window. Personally, Jesus would have preferred to just stay until they went away, but at least two of the doors were about an hour away from breaking and one of the windows had already shattered - which was why they currently had walker guts to bathe in. They'd managed to barricade the window and dispatch the intruder, but it obviously wasn't going to last long. 

"Better go if we're gonna go," Daryl said. 

"Alright," Jesus said. "Let's go out through the back." Seemed like a safer bet. 

He headed out that way, aware of Daryl's presence at his back. No walkers had started congregating out there yet, though they weren't far enough off to make it a safe route without all the gloop over them. 

"Boost?" Jesus asked, although he could have made the jump if he really wanted to. Instead, he watched as Daryl knelt down and cupped his hands, and Jesus put a hand on one of his broad shoulders, feeling the sticky heat of his skin. He hesitated for half a second, before giving himself a mental shake and using Daryl's cupped hands to get a boost - shoving up the window and pushing out the screen as quickly as he could.

It didn't take long to shimmy out of it and he dropped silently to the ground, eyeing the straggling walkers that were mosey around the corner before turning his gaze to watch Daryl struggle his way out, frame built more for brute strength than wriggling out of windows. 

He was still hot though. 

Jesus couldn't quite appreciate it fully, thanks to the stench of death up his nostrils and the paranoia that the clear blue skies might open up and start pouring rain out of nowhere, but it was a nice little thought at the back of his head. 

"Move slow, don't get too far off," Daryl warned him, stopping next to him, close enough that Jesus could bump his shoulder if he really, really wanted to (he did, so he did). 

Jesus' brow pulled into a furrow again as they slowly neared the side of the cabin, where the throng had started to fill in - there were a lot of bodies, a mass they had to get through in order to reach the car they'd brought scouting on the other side - and he didn't want to think about losing Daryl within it, not being able to tell if he needed help or not. 

So Jesus reached out and slotted his fingers with Daryl's, ignoring the slippery feel of blood in favor of the rush of heat it sent through the pit of his stomach, the way it felt more comfortable than it really had any reason to. Daryl's eyes had gone wide, just a bit, beneath his hair, and Jesus swallowed an apology.

It was necessary. 

Completely necessary. 

"Let's go," he said, not giving Daryl the opportunity to pull away. 

And off they went, sliding cautiously through a sea of dead flesh, the moans and snarls crowding around him until he couldn't hear anything else. Jesus could feel his heart in his throat, muscles tensed and coiled, ready to spring into action the moment this idea failed. 

A walker bumped into his shoulder and his hand tightened reflexively around Daryl's - he couldn't see Daryl - didn't dare look back, but he could feel him, his grip warm and firm in his and squeezing back. His heart skittered in his chest for an entirely different reason, but he couldn't focus on it, could only continue on, keeping his gaze focused ahead, Daryl's hand firm in his. 

It took twenty long minutes to reach the end of the horde, for their car to come into sight, for Jesus to be able to breathe again. 

As they approached the car, Jesus found himself still holding Daryl's hand, unable to let go. Then again, Daryl didn't seem to be in any hurry either, as they stood there and caught their breath, and Jesus was almost - _almost_ sure that Daryl's thumb was rubbing some sort of soothing pattern over his skin. 

But that obviously not happening. Must be a nervous twitch. 

"Wasn't as bad as Rick made it sound," Daryl said and Jesus couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head. 

"That was _terrible_ , Daryl," he said. "I'm never going to get this smell out of my nose," he said. 

"Y'get used to it," Daryl shrugged. 

"I find that hard to believe." 

"Mhm, yer right, might be different for someone used to fancy fruity shampoo and all that shit," Daryl agreed. 

"It's hardly fancy - " Jesus defended. It was some basic label from a general store they'd scavenged, there'd been three whole cases in a backroom and he was pretty sure he would be spending the rest of his days smelling of strawberry and mint. 

"Fancy enough," Daryl grunted. Jesus was pretty sure that when the other man did use shampoo, it was some two-in-one he'd gotten from a gas station. 

Not that Jesus had snooped. He might have just...accidentally caught a glimpse when he was over Daryl's one afternoon. 

"No one's stopping you from being fruit scented yourself," Jesus pointed out, and Daryl scoffed. Jesus felt the corners of his mouth turning upward, amusement curling across his face as he stared at Daryl and neither of them said anything for a moment or two, and then longer, until a nice, quiet (well, semi-quiet there was still the distant moaning of walkers in the background) lull drifted between them. 

Daryl was still holding his hand. Or was he still holding Daryl's hand.

He couldn't tell. 

He swallowed, tongue swiping out over his lower lip as he prepared himself to - he wasn't sure, just that there seemed to be some - 

"Fuck." 

Daryl's rough voice jarred him from his thoughts, the hunter wrenching their hands apart as he turned and lunged at a walker that had been shambling past, sinking his knife into the skull with a wet squelch. 

"Think we should go," Daryl said, eyeing the corpse. 

Jesus frowned. "I think you're right," he said. 

 ----------------

"Where is he?" 

Daryl could feel his heart in his mouth, and it tasted like copper. 

"Woah, easy, Daryl. He's inside, asleep. He's okay, just a sprained ankle and a few bruises. No concussion." 

It felt like his lungs were on fire and Daryl drew in a ragged breath as he stared at Carson, wanting to shrug off the other man's hand on his shoulder but unable to find the strength. 

He'd barely stepped through the gates when Kal had told him that Jesus had had an accident, and maybe he should have stuck around to hear the rest of it, but as soon he'd heard it, he'd headed straight for Carson's trailer. 

"How the hell - " 

Carson held up a hand and Daryl bit his tongue to keep from cursing, eyeing the trailer door like he might be about to shove past and go see Jesus anyway . 

"He was training someone, something went wrong, that's all I know. But he's fine, I promise. I can let you know when he wakes up if you wan -"

"No," Daryl said, mouth twisting, a little taken aback by how forcefully it'd come out. But he wasn't backing down, chin jutting out as he stared at Carson. "I - can I just go in, for a little bit?" 

Carson look undecided for a moment before he finally nodded. "Alright, but be quiet. And if he wakes up - don't let him leave until I've checked him over." 

Daryl nodded, barely waiting for Carson to step aside before brushing past and climbing the steps of the trailer, pausing when he got to the door, hand on the handle. It wasn't until Carson had said that Jesus was alright that he'd realized how much it woulda rattled him if something wasn't

Just the idea made a lump settle at the base of his throat. He didn't - he didn't know when that started. They'd been hanging around together since the end of the war, always getting paired for shit like putting up fence posts and going on runs and now they seldom went a day without seeing each other. 

It was - it was easy, hanging around with Jesus. Hanging around with _Paul_. Daryl wasn't sure when they'd become friends, or when he'd started wanting something more than friendship. Didn't know when he'd started looking at Paul and wondering at the back of his mind _what if_ (which was stupid cos there wasn't no way Paul would be into him). 

He swallowed, opening the door as slowly as he could, nearly holding his breath as he peered inside. 

Paul was on one of the beds, eyes closed, bare footed with an ace bandage wrapped around one his ankles. It made Daryl's heart ache and he inched his way inside, closing the door without a whisper of sound and using every skill he'd ever learned hunting to make his way soundlessly across the floor to nab the seat at Paul's bedside. 

HIs face was unlined with sleep, a reddening bruise already blooming high on his cheekbone, one a little higher on his temple as well. 

One of his hands was lying palm up toward the ceiling, muscles slack and Daryl couldn't draw his eyes away from his fingers. They were long, and slender, and capable of balling up into a mean fist - Daryl'd never been on the receiving end but he'd seen it wallop the hell out of a walker - and yet those bones looked so fragile against those white sheets. 

Daryl didn't even know he was doing it, until one of his large, calloused hands slid over Paul's, his palm pressing feather light against warm skin, fingertips brushing against the curve of Paul's. Daryl folded their fingers together, barely holding tight enough to feel him, and swallowed hard. 

The hand in his twitched, tightening around his, and Daryl's heart jumped into his throat as his gaze jerked up. 

Paul was staring at him, eyes wide and very, very blue. 

"Hey," Daryl forced out, seemingly through a mouthful of cotton.

"Hey," Paul said back (and this was Paul, not Jesus, and there was a difference somehow, only Daryl didn't know how to explain it). 

"Kal said - Kal said ya'd been in an accident," Daryl said, gaze slipping toward their entwined hands before jack rabbiting away, falling on a stretch of harmless sheet. 

Paul looked a little chagrined, mouth pressing into a tight thin line for a moment. "It was stupid. I'm fine." 

Daryl eyed him, frowning, fully prepared to go out and hunt down whoever had done this to him. 

"Daryl, I mean it, I'm fine," Paul said, giving his hand a squeeze. 

Daryl swallowed. 

"When I heard - I thought...I -" He felt like his mouth was made of ashes, like he wouldn't ever be able to say the words pressing against his tongue. "I was scared, when I thought you was hurt." He swallowed again. "Real hurt, I mean." 

"It's okay," Paul said, voice low. "I'm okay." 

Daryl felt like his stomach was filled with a thousand squirming worms and he swallowed, staring down at their hands again. "I think I - I think -" he couldn't force the words out, gaze lifting to stare helplessly at Paul.

 _I think I love you, whatever that means_ he thought. 

Paul eyed him for a long moment, realization slowly sliding into place. 

Daryl held his breath as Paul brought their hands to his mouth, pressing his lips against the back of Daryl's hand. Those blue eyes stared up at him and Daryl couldn't even breathe, mouth dropping open as Paul pressed another kiss against a scar on the side of his hand, as he met his gaze again and turned his hand press a kiss against his pulse point. 

"I think I do too," he whispered as he pulled his lips from Daryl's skin, which now felt like it was on fire - and he was sure Paul had been able to feel his pulse jump beneath his lips. 

Daryl stared at him, near uncomprehending, until Paul curled a hand through the strands of hair at the back of Daryl's neck and pulled him forward, until their lips were close enough to touch. 

And he kissed him. 

 ----------------

"You have nice hands." 

"Ain't nothin' special." 

"I think I'll be the judge of that." 

Early afternoon sunlight filtered through the trailer windows, leaving swaths of gold over the bed. They'd been out late the night before, coming back from a scavenging trip, and had both collapsed into bed as soon as they'd stepped foot in the room. 

It'd taken awhile for the both of them to wake up, sleep still clinging to them stubbornly, but neither was in any big hurry to get out of bed. Paul was lying with his head on Daryl's shoulder, holding one of Daryl's hands in both of his. He traced the jut of his veins, the muscles underneath the skin, fingers brushing lightly over scars, faded with time, wondering how that hand - so battle worn - could be so soft and gentle. 

He brought Daryl's hand to his mouth, lips pressing lightly against the skin, and he felt a huff of amused air from Daryl above him. 

"C'mon stop," he said, tugging his hand away. Paul let it go reluctantly, tiling his head back to look up at him, and Daryl chose that moment to lean down to kiss him, lips catching against his. He smiled into it. 

"You should be proud of those hands they're very -" Paul was smothered by another kiss. He huffed an amused laugh through his nose, wriggling so that he could swing his leg over Daryl's midsection and straddle his hips, pulling back to stare down at him with a little smirk on his face. 

"I mean it - they're - " 

Daryl tugged him down for another kiss, winding a hand through his hair and tightening just a bit, making Paul groan low in his throat. Paul made a mental note to compliment Daryl's hands later, perhaps after he'd been tired out and therefore unable to stop him.

Paul grabbed one of Daryl's hands, which had made a home on his hip, not daring to lift his lips away, and threaded their fingers together, leaning forward so he could press Daryl's hand against the sheets above his head. Yeah, he'd definitely compliment him later. 


End file.
